


the ghost on the shore

by reciprocal



Category: The Revenant (2016)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ficlet, Hallucinations, No Dialogue, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocal/pseuds/reciprocal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had everything that mattered torn from him, and with that, his life as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ghost on the shore

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished the book and watched the film, and I absolutely loved it. It's one of those rare films where they're as good as the book.
> 
> (I'm young, my stories won't be updated regularly due to school. Sorry.)

Hugh Glass is already dead.

His heart still thrums in his clothed chest and he knows each breath he takes is real, but he's dead. And he wills himself to keep moving, even if every step he takes is knives in his limbs, even if he's slowly starving. The cold and lack of food should've already killed him, but his acute determination and the face of his lifeless son still swells within his skull and powers him forward one more step. He remembers, vividly, the sight of Fitzgerald slamming Hawk into the tree with the knife. His vision went awry and his throat seemed to rip with each of his cries. He watched the very man sent to protect him murder his son and haul him away like some animal's corpse. Glass never wanted to kill someone as much as he did Fitzgerald. His hatred burned like fire in his chest but his broken body was the barrier between him and the murderer.

The flame burned out upon finding the body of Hawk, stiff and flaked with fresh snow. Glass knew him to be dead, but couldn't stop from pressing his fingers to his frozen throat to search for the pulse he so desperately desired. The body was still and empty. Gone. His futile attempt and weighed feelings of sheer helplessness and regret left him anguished. On his son's chest he rested his head, trembling not from the cold but from the overwhelming weight of the situation. He was no longer a husband, nor a father. He had everything that mattered torn from him, and with that, his life as well.

He plunges his already-frozen hands deep into the shallow water, cups them, and brings them to his mouth. His throat allows him to drink, although it still pains him to swallow. The face of some stranger stares at him through the water's surface, covered with grime and festering wounds. He can't bear to keep eye contact and fills Bridger's canteen rigidly. What would Bridger do if he knew Glass to be alive? What would he say when the dead man would show up at Fort Kiowa, searching for those who left him? Glass grits his teeth and stands, for a moment imagining himself raising a rifle to Fitzgerald's head.

There's movement in the verdure. Glass heaves himself upon his walking stick and moves forward with a sudden gush of energy. In the distance, the rising sun expands into beams of gold that wash over the white landscape and give light to the great mountains. Clouds loom overhead and move along with the winds that shake the grasses. Dark birds examine him from their skeletal trees.

He steps through the shallow stream and over slick and mossy rocks. Amidst his distracted pondering, he fails to catch himself from slipping over and landing on his damaged back. He cries out and gasps in shock, quaking. The clouds swirl over him. It's not until he can catch his breath does he arduously roll over until his face meets water. The bear claws fall from his neck and he stares at them, still on his stomach. The furs he wears are soaked and absolutely freezing but he can't feel much anymore.

Hawk's face appears, hovering over his, sobbing his name and holding cloth to his bleeding wounds. Then he's gone. The bear is dead, but Glass can feel its teeth shredding the fingers that he once used to touch his son's face. He grips the claws in his fist and forces himself to his feet. Each of his heavy footfalls pushes deep into the ice. Then, he pauses. The gentleness of his wife's voice hums in his ear and he jerks his head to look for her.

There's nothing but the unforgiving wind and his own self, somewhere between living and dead.

**Author's Note:**

> I was excited to contribute to this very small fandom. This may be edited over time if and when I find things to improve.


End file.
